Writing from Berlin, I listen to the pianist next door play a festive melody as the snow settles on Arndtstraße. He plays every day while I type into a mute machine. The neighbouring Bergmannstrasse reminds me of Upper Street in Islington with its boutique florist shops and iron street lamps. It’s Christmas card looking for a frame. My book shelves are empty, but I have the Neapolitan Novels by Elena Ferrante to complete before the year closes.
There are entire libraries separating me and her prose.